


you drew stars around my scars

by safeandsound13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergent, F/M, Happy Ending, Love Confessions, Smut, a soft epilogue or some shit, bullshitting my way through s7 plot, dancing around their unconditional love for each other, echomus prime dont exist she dead or something, lets not clown and pretend this is gonna be canon compliant, me looking away from bellamys whoreish past god bless, more me being faux deep, sounds about bellarke, two idiots joking around about their trauma, whos gonna punch me in the mouth if i say 'making love'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:14:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25943410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13
Summary: Clarke's very first dream was Earth. It's not hard to understand why she gave up on dreaming after that, all hope of dreams coming true beaten out of her with violence, leaving her bruised and broken. A scar hard not to prod every once in a while. Especially when it comes to her someday.(One day, Madi draws one of Clarke's memories. Bellamy's hand weaved into her hair, his lips on hers. Except it's not a memory, not a real one anyway. It's a dream. It's hard to believe, but, somehow, sometimes, those do come true.)
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 40
Kudos: 234





	you drew stars around my scars

**Author's Note:**

> lately it feels like im missing a little bit of that je ne sais quoi. that pizzaz. some of that spunk. that sparkle. missing that panache. that italian finger emoji. just a little bit of that zest. that vivaciousness. the vigour. some ~oomph~. missing zing. dynamism! im just hopefully gonna keep trying until one of these days this shit feels like it was written by me again. 
> 
> inspired by me clowning on the timeline i guess. this fic? unedited. the 100 season 7? unwatched. bellarke? uncanon!
> 
> title from cardigan by taylor swift. imagine my first new fic since folklore dropped not being related to one of the songs. imagine that.

Clarke should’ve instinctively known something was about to go wrong the minute she saw Bellamy walk up behind Madi, sitting by the picnic table near the lake, poking her in the side. It’s probably to achieve exactly what happens, Madi jolting with surprise, a loud yelp spilling from her lips before boisterous laughter follows. 

The sketchbook in her lap scatters to the floor, her drawings and pencils spilling everywhere, and Clarke finds her hands abandoning the food by the fire and her boots taking her over to the two of them before she can even decipher why. She can hear Bellamy’s low chuckle before she can properly make out his expression, and her heart pounds louder with each step she takes, not finding it in her to see the lightheartedness in the situation in front of her. Not even as she can make out Madi lowly cursing him under her breath, shoving him in the shoulder. 

It hits her as she crouches down and starts to haphazardly collect the sheets of paper, why exactly she found herself walking over here. She feels weirdly protective over these drawings, memories, none of which are really Madi’s. Her daughter is too young to understand the implications of that, of the responsibility she carries to guard something so intimate and private. Most of the memories belong to the dead, and for almost all of them that means they’re all that’s truly left of them. 

“You’re not funny,” Madi has decided, one hand pressed to her ribs dramatically, as if he’s traumatically injured her. Clarke can hear the words, but they’re distant. Just like the nod he gave her in thanks as soon as she crouched down is still being processed by her foggy brain. Or how the blaring sun beating down on the back of her neck just has her feeling cold.

“And you’re a brat,” he counters, poking her in the exact same spot teasingly until she slaps him away. His hair is still wet from his earlier swim, his black shirt clinging to his chest from dampness. “You said you’d come in over half an hour ago.”

She sticks out her tongue, stuffing her pencils in the colorful pouch Gaia knitted her. “Miller is so much cooler than you.”

“Ouch,” he mocks, pressing a hand to his heart. “Sick burn, kid.”

It turns out it’s not the dead she has to worry about. It’s like time stops as she sees his eyes light up in recognition, tugging a drawing of himself from the stack in Madi’s small hand until most of it’s revealed to all of their eyes. Except the drawing is not just of him, and it’s not a memory from one of the Commanders. It’s hers, and she’s in it. Being kissed by him. 

Clarke feels her cheek flush in what she guesses is the most attractive shade of tomato red known to mankind, quickly snatching the sheet from her daughter’s grip. Her pulse rattles on in her throat as she ignores Bellamy’s eyes on the side of her face, which she’s more than well aware of, staring at Madi desperately. “Where did you get that?”

Her daughter, annoying as ever, lifts one of her bushy eyebrows, an all-knowing and unimpressed glint in her eyes. She knows, and so does Clarke, because she remembers. Remembers dreaming about a moment just like in the drawing, a moment where everything would finally line up exactly right, and she’d fall into Bellamy’s arms and he’d kiss her until she’d forgotten her own name. She’s been incredibly lonely, and that meant sometimes her mind went places. Private places. Not for anyone else to see. 

“Well,” Madi starts, glancing between the two of the adults surrounding her, inhaling deeply. It’s not like Clarke can blame her, she reminds herself, not when Madi never asked for those memories in the first place, and not when she once revealed to her that drawing the ones haunting her mind can help her get rid of them completely. But, it’s also not for anyone to _talk_ about.

Clarke cuts her off before she can say anything she _really_ can’t turn back from, tucking her hair behind her ear as she quickly rises to her feet, stumbling on her feet. “Nevermind,” she mutters, still avoiding a particular someone’s gaze. It never happened, he knows it just as she does. Which just adds a level of personal humiliation Clarke can't quite put into words.

Somehow, Bellamy and Madi are guffawing together over something, a something which she is sure can’t be anything else but the embarrassment written all over her face. It kind of makes her feel sick, how much it aches, right in the middle of her chest. 

She crumples the drawing up in her fist, her blue eyes meeting his insistent gaze, and she can tell he’s confused, a little dazed even, but she can’t give him an answer he’d like to hear. He opens his mouth, but his sister is still in the water, currently dunking Emori, and beats him to it, “Bell, you coming back in?” 

“Yeah, in a minute!” He calls back out to her, frustration flitting across his eyes for a moment before they land back on hers. But Bellamy still knows her, and he can still tell she doesn’t want to talk about it, and he knows well enough to not disrespect that in front of Madi, so he turns to her daughter instead, “Come on, Mads. If we leave her any longer, she might get eaten by another water worm.”

This has Madi in a fit of giggles, putting down her pouch and sketchbook on top of the table as she starts pulling her shirt over her head. Shame forms a heavy pit in Clarke’s stomach the longer she stands there and she realizes she has to get away, quickly, but he’s saying her name like a question mark, and then she’s shaking her head, mumbling something about burnt rations as she turns on her heels. 

Despite her best efforts, she feels tears stinging her eyes as she walks away from them. Quickly, she drops the drawing in the bin by the door leading inside of her and Madi’s cabin. Telling herself she’ll just go inside for a minute to recuperate, catch her breath. Clarke never intended on revisiting those memories anytime soon, not when she’d just managed to stop her mind from going there every time she closed her eyes, and she hopes for once, he can let it go, too. 

* * *

Clarke avoids him for well over a week. She doesn’t trust he won’t push, even when the relationship and trust they’ve been rebuilding between them since Bardo is fragile at best. So she keeps busy. But part of keeping busy means returning to old habits, which means as soon as she accidentally finds out about the council actually considering allowing what’s essentially a purge (case and point in why she _never_ thought Murphy should be allowed to be in the council to start with), she can’t look the other way and pretend it’s not happening. 

So she goes over to Bellamy’s cabin, because rationally speaking, he’s still her partner when it comes to all of this, the least they owe each other, and maybe he knows a way they can stop this without being sucked back in. She wants to be free, but she also can’t stand idly by. 

Clarke knocks once, and when he opens the door doesn’t even bother with a greeting as she invites herself inside. “Did you hear about the council meeting today?” 

Much like her, he’s taken a well-deserved break, avoiding politics as much as anyone will allow him to do. She could tell it was hard on him at first, not having a definite purpose, a cause to fight for, but he’s lighter now, less like Atlas carrying the world on his shoulders and more like lighthearted fuckboy Zeus, in a good way. He reminds her of the Bellamy she first met in the Dropship, but older and darker and somehow even more attractive, gives her hope maybe he’s finally forgiving himself for some of the things he’s been through.

Bellamy’s still kind of dumbly staring at the place she stood just seconds ago before he shakes himself out of it, swinging the door shut. He turns to watch her roam around his cabin, scratching the back of his head. “The fighting pit but make it the whole city?”

“Murphy claimed he’s done scientific studies that ‘prove’ it boosts the general levels of happiness around town.”

He snorts, unimpressed, leaning against the wall by the door with his shoulder as he watches her with amusement. He pushes up one of his sleeves, right up to his elbow. “He can’t even spell scientific.”

“My point exactly!” Clarke agrees, coming to a stop near his closet. She doesn’t know why she’s fuming like this. She’s pretty sure she wasn’t _this_ mad before she came here, but she also wasn’t forced to come eye to eye with a sleepy looking Bellamy with messy hair and exposed forearms. Maybe she’s overcompensating. And Murphy’s always been an easy target. “He’s wanted anarchy since the start, for no other reason then to sit back and enjoy the show. You give him an inch, and he takes the whole fucking yard.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much. He was probably just bored and most likely he’ll back out before the end of the week,” Bellamy explains rationally, stifling a yawn as he casually lifts his shoulders. She guesses he does know him best. Fucking space and all. “Besides, the council can’t approve or reject shit without Emori’s consent.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, running a hand through her hair as her gaze flits around the room, trying to distract herself from him. “I don’t know how that’s supposed to comfort me when she sleeps soundly beside him at n—” Her eyes catch on a crumpled piece of paper stuck to the mirror hanging over the sink in the corner. She takes a tentative step towards it, running her finger over the thin parchment, as if to check if it’s real and not just a figment of her imagination. Shock surges through her as she blinks at it a few more times before turning to Bellamy. “Why do you have this?”

“Why does Madi?” He counters, easily, raising his eyebrows at her. Bellamy seems unaffected, from the smug smirk playing on his lips to the casual way he’s leaning against the wall, and it aggravates her deeply. It’s _her_ fucking dream. He doesn’t have the moral high ground here for digging through her trash.

He has her there, though. Clarke stumbles, for just a moment, then flicks her eyes at the ceiling, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s done feeling sorry for having feelings. “Those six years…” She shakes her head a little, the easiest explanation being, “I had Madi, and I wasn’t alone, but I was still lonely. My imagination was all I had. Sometimes my mind — it went places. And I’d rather it go there then back to all the skeletons in my closet.”

Clarke knows it’s a little manipulative, but she also knows the fastest way to change the subject, in this case away from her own embarrassing delusions, is to bring up the ghosts haunting them. And usually, he would’ve budged. But this doesn’t seem to be ‘usually’, because there’s still the hint of a smirk on his face and none of that familiar sympathy over shared trauma in his dark eyes. She’s at a loss. Those were all her tricks.

“That would make sense,” Bellamy agrees with a slight tilt of his head as he slowly pushes himself off the wall and steps closer, the baritone of his voice making her heart jump just a little. “Except I didn’t have a beard when I left.”

Clarke feels her entire face flush, like she got caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Except, it’s a metaphorical cookie jar and the metaphor in question is her best friend’s mouth and her metaphorical hand is actually her tongue. She swallows hard, her eyes flicking down to the little dip in his chin, before going back up to his eyes. He’s standing too close, and it’s clouding her mind, preventing her from conjuring up any rational thoughts. “You should see some of the others. One time I gave you frosted tips.”

He laughs, almost startling her. Her body is on high alert, pulse so fast her heart is struggling to keep up, and it’s convinced her into thinking this is a serious conversation. It calls for a frown, or maybe a ‘ _Clarke_ ’ in a dark, disappointed tone. She didn’t expect laughter, especially not the free, happy sound rumbling from his chest.

“I think I definitely pulled it off.”

Clarke licks her chapped lips, managing to keep a straight face. “You can pull off a lot of things, but frosted tips aren’t one of them.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “So give me a number.”

“A number?” Her voice sounds smaller than intended, but she feels like they’re having two completely different conversations while avoiding the humongous elephant in the room that is the fact Clarke has memories in which the two of them _kiss_.

Bellamy juts his chin at her, teasingly. “Ball park. Like was it an everyday thing, or did you only envision me on the would-be anniversary of my death?”

“That’s kinda morbid, don’t you think?” She scrunches up her nose briefly. Clarke usually did other stuff on the commemoration of the second apocalypse wiping out earth. Like, ugly cry into a radio. “Even for us.”

“Come on, Clarke,” he taunts, smirking as he closes even more of the distance between them. “It’s okay, you don’t have to be embarrassed. We all have needs—“

She shoves him backwards, frowning his way. He doesn’t get to make fun of her. “It was just kissing, Bellamy. Few light pecks. It never went anywhere.” Two can play this game. She narrows her eyes at him. “Why would you think it did?”

His smile dims a little, wistful almost. “I’m glad it didn’t.”

Okay. Harsh. She tilts her head back slightly, halfway offended.

“I mean, having those images swirling around in Madi’s brain—“ God.

Clarke physically cringes, cutting him off mid sentence as his words linger in the air and make room for an awkward silence. She doesn’t dare look at him lest she gives everything away. And she’s afraid he doesn’t know what to say either, like maybe they’ve passed the point of being able to just be around each other without needing a reason. Perhaps, along the way, they’ve lost that easiness with each other. 

Surprisingly enough, he continues, so soft she has to strain her ears, a sound unfamiliar to her, almost shy. Bellamy ‘ _whatever the hell we want’_ Blake is never shy. Least of all with her. Soft, yeah, not shy. “And it would be incomparable to the real thing.”

Clarke can feel his eyes burning into the side of her face— even as her heart pounds so loudly she’s afraid it might break out of her ribcage, or worse, has him overhear — but it takes her a few seconds, some quiet mental processing and a sharp inhale of air before she’s able to force herself to meet his gaze instead of a point just below his chin.

Bellamy — he doesn’t look sure. Doesn’t look confident like usual. He’s holding his breath, just like she is. The two of them stuck in an expansion of time, a ‘before’, something momentous.

“The real thing?” Her voice is scratchy, her throat feeling dry. Part of her is still afraid she’s misunderstanding, even after all this time.

His warm hand comes up to palm the side of her face, almost swallowing it whole, and her stomach flips as she realises they’re a mirror image of the drawing stuck to his wall. Bellamy swallows hard enough for her to be able to hear it in the silence of his cabin. “Is this too much?”

Her entire body screams, leaning into his touch. _God no_. It’s not enough. But her heart's been broken too many times before, and in moments like these, it's turned her into someone she doesn't recognize. Afraid and insecure and too battered to dare and get hurt again. She's not sure she could survive it, not with him. To have it, hold it right there in her grasp and have it taken away again. Clarke licks her lips, nervous. “Depends on if you’re going to follow through.”

Little specks of gold swim in his eyes as he holds her gaze, searching. “I will if you want me to.”

Her breath stutters, like her lungs are protesting the first real breath she’s been able to take since he went up to space and she stayed down on earth. Maybe ever. Maybe this is what she’s been looking for all this time.

It’s right here, in front of them, ready for the taking. It’s been here, for a long time, and no matter how hard she convinces herself it isn’t, or tries to change it, or tries to forget and move on, it’s always there. Steady, undeniable, a single thread of gold leading her to him.

It clicks into place all at once. How easy this all could’ve been, if only one of them had said anything sooner, if only he didn’t have a sick need to sabotage his own happiness, if only she hadn’t been such a coward when it came to love. If they weren’t so incredibly stupid.

It’s no longer just want, it’s need. Coursing through her veins, begging, pleading to give her body what it wants. To be close, to be near, to be fucking consumed by him. For everything to change, but stay exactly the same.

The corner of her mouth turns up slightly, hands trembling with anticipation, and she's so nervous she feels sick, sick to her stomach, sick like she's out on sea, riding the waves through a storm, but she's been homesick too, for years now, centuries. Homesick for way too long and it's making her a little reckless with it. Her mouth twitches, trying to give him a smile, "I want it so much I've been dreaming about it."

It earns her half a chuckle, more a rough exhale of air than actual laughter, and he steps close enough for her to have to tip her chin up to be able to keep holding his gaze. And she wants to, wants to keep looking at him, watch him, Bellamy, because it's like they're finally seeing each other. Here, now, after all — it's been decades and different planets and numerous sides, so much blood on their hands, so many ghosts haunting their minds, people they've loved, people they've lost, breaking and healing and doing it all over again, mistakes they've made and forgiveness they've granted. They've grown, and even backslid, and not always at the same time. They've hurt each other, and built each other right back up again. Sometimes, most of the time, she had herself convinced they'd missed their window. 

But here it is. This is her endless desert, with a vaste purple sky, and a hand reaching out to her, through a fucking window, and it's his. It's always his. And she's going to take it.

His thumb brushes over her cheekbone, gentle. Bellamy sounds as wrecked as she feels, and he makes it sound like a warning, "If I get to kiss you, I'm never going to stop."

Her stomach flips, and she presses closer to him, fingers digging into his back, right below his shoulder bladers, hard and desperate and a reminder that this is real, and not a figment of her stupid imagination. "Then don't."

He kisses her, and in the end, it’s not that momentous. It’s just warm, spreading slowly from the middle of her chest to the tips of her fingers. A little seed of hope blooming to life. 

"Just so you know," Clarke pants, squeezing her eyes shut hard, trying to focus, trying to not be distracted by his dumb face and his kiss-bitten lips and his stupidly mussed hair, because she still can't let him win, not when her dignity is at stake, "In my dreams, your hands always stayed above the covers."

"Not even some over the clothes action?" He doesn't sound convinced at all, probably just humouring her as he presses kisses down her throat, the scratchiness of his beard leaving a trail of fire along her skin. 

"Never," she agrees happily, tugging on the bottom of his shirt until he relents, grabbing a hold of the collar by the back of his neck and pulling it over his head. Willingly playing along, "No tongue either."

"Damn,” he murmurs against her collarbone, nosing the column of her neck. “Dream Bellamy is such a gentleman."

"Nightmare Bellamy," she corrects him, suddenly realizing she's dug herself her own grave here. Clarke does not want him to get the wrong impression. She definitely _doesn’t_ want him to be a gentleman in any way. 

With a lingering kiss to her pulse point, Bellamy drags his face back up to hers, squinting at her slightly. "So just to be clear, do you want my hands above or beneath the covers?"

She pulls him back towards her mouth with both hands, lips moving against his as she demands, "Shut up."

Clarke doesn’t even hear him at first, too busy exploring his firm chest with her eager hands, biting at his jaw. "I had dreams, too, you know?"

"You did?" She wonders, pulling back enough to look at him, and she suddenly feels overwhelming stupid. Who cares if she ever had dirty dreams about him? She loves him. And it looks like he might feel the same way.

"Yeah, lots,” Bellamy confirms, voice low. He pushes up her shirt slowly, palm of his hand moving over her stomach, her abdominal muscles jumping under his touch until it rests right below her bra, over her ribs. "Of how your skin would feel against mine." He ducks his head just enough to take her bottom lip in between his own, biting lightly before soothing the sharp sting with a softer peck. "What your mouth would taste like." There's a small, almost frustrated grumble in the back of his throat as he darkly stares down at her, right before he palms her breast, squeezing satisfyingly, "How these would feel in my hands."

Clarke swallows, her centre throbbing so longingly she feels the need to defuse some of the thick tension in the air. "Space made you horny, huh?"

He smiles, faint, before it disappears. "My dreams in space were different. Most of those were about my regrets." His brows furrow together, and her fingers itch to smooth it away. "I thought you — I thought I lost you."

She understands. It was different for her. She had hope, that somehow, they'd made it. He saw the world go up in flames. "You didn't," Clarke reassures him, tightening her grip around his biceps, trying to ground him back to reality. Right here with her. "You didn't. Not then, and not with Josie, and never again."

He runs his thumb over her lips, smiling to himself. "You _have_ always been too stubborn for your own good."

"I'd say it's working out in your favor."

His smile dims, and there’s the barest hint of a flinch. "I'm sorry, you know?"

"Please,” she pleads, pressing closer to him, burying her hands into his hair. If she sounds desperate, it’s because she is. “Please don't make me sad right now. I don't want to talk, I don't want to _think_. I want you to make me feel good, okay? I want this to be real."

"Clarke—" He starts, wrecked, but she’s pushing him towards the bed in the back of the room. 

  
  
  


Clarke shakes her head lightly, not satisfied until the back of his knees hit the mattress. "We can just fast-forward on the apologies. I forgive you. I always do."

He tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, a distant look in his eye and _no_. He's not going to do this. Their minds have played so many tricks on them over the years, whether it be nut-induced hallucinations, PTSD-related ghosts, red suns, body-jacking or brainwashing, they can’t start doing it to themselves. She recognizes that look in his eyes all too well. "Maybe you shouldn't."

Perhaps some other time, they can discuss this. Again. They can deep dive into their biggest regrets, and talk forgiveness, and kiss it better. Right now, she just wants to get fucked. It’s been close to two centuries and she’s done being cockblocked by their own anguish and remorse. It’ll still be there in the morning. Right now, she’s frustrated. "Are you going to make me beg?"

Bellamy lets his hand drop off the shell of her ear, sinking down into the bed and she wants nothing more but to kiss him until that pained look in his eye is nothing but a distant memory. "I betrayed you. I put you in the MCap, Clarke. I just want to make sure that you're not just doing this because—"

They've talked about it. There were tears, and promises made, and a near minute long hug, of course. He's just stubborn, and a sucker for holding himself to impossible standards. (She knows, because she’s the same.) He saved her, too. Not only then, but countless times before. At this point, she's convinced there isn't a line he could cross that he couldn't come back from. That she couldn't walk him back from. 

Right now, she’s done talking though.

"Okay, you are," Clarke mutters, answering her own question, before cupping his face with both hands, directing his gaze onto hers and cutting him off mid-sentence. She'll be more than glad to discuss this, again, and again, at a later point in time, because she doesn't feel like crying right now. Not about this, anyway. She puts a knee on either side of him, lowering herself on top of him. "Fuck me, Bellamy. Please." Knowing them, an interruption is coming soon, and she'd preferably come herself before that happens. To hell with her dignity. "This is me begging. You got me. Please, fuck—"

Bellamy's kissing her then, swallowing the rest of her sentence. She sighs into his mouth, because _yes_ , this is exactly what she wanted — all her thoughts, every little worry melting away just like that. Their lips break apart briefly so he can tear her shirt over her head, smoothing down her hair as he fits his mouth back over hers. His hand lingers on the ends of her hair, down to her shoulders now, rubbing them between his fingers softly, pulling back enough so he can look at her, mouth still ghosting over hers. "You got me too."

  
  
  


Her fingers bite into his shoulders as she wraps her arms entirely around him, tugging him as close as humanly possible. Electric tingles of pleasure shoot up her spine at the sensation of him pressed so close, of his lips on hers and his hands buried in her hair. Her skin feels hot and tight, too small for her body, not big enough to contain all the heat building up beneath it. Bellamy stands and turns them over, laying her down. 

He only has to use one hand to unclip her bra behind her back, and she rips it off her own arms before flinging it off somewhere to the side. It's really her only good bra, but right now she couldn't care less if she never saw it again. Her ankles lock behind his back as Bellamy bands an arm around her waist, hoisting her further up on the bed until her head’s on the pillow and he's caging her in completely. He doesn't even bother pushing her pants down, just unbuttons them before slipping his hand inside her panties, running his middle finger down her slit. Clarke's more than wet at this point, and her clit throbs and throbs with the need to be touched.

Bellamy seems to be able to read her mind, because next thing she knows he presses his finger over the sensitive nub and starts rubbing it in small circles. She moans into his mouth at his touch, and soon he's kissing his way down her neck, placing wet sloppy kisses all over her chest, cooling the skin in a way that makes goosebumps form over her entire body. Bellamy scrapes his teeth over her nipple before taking one into his mouth, all the while his fingers are still working her over thoroughly. The combined sensation of his tongue, his hands, his beard, his overwhelming _scent_ — it's maddening.

It's not long before the warm smoldering feeling in the pit of her stomach explodes like a volcano, searing sparks washing over her entire body in waves. Her heart stutters in her chest as she realizes the time for dreaming is over, and this is really happening.

She's still trembling when he comes back up to fit his mouth over hers, placing soft, small pecks to her lips as he helps her come down. Bellamy’s thumb gingerly moves over her pulsepoint, his hand covering the entirety of the back of her neck, each stroke grounding her back to reality. 

“Good?” He murmurs against her lips, and she nods against his mouth before meeting him for another heated, slow kiss. 

Clarke slowly blinks open her eyes, sending him a dazed smile. “Better than even my wildest dreams.”

He grins, stupidly big. “Considering the wildest things we did in your dreams was read the bible together—”

She rolls her eyes — not in the mood for his usual comedic turn of events when her body is still humming, pleading for more now it’s had a taste — reaching out to tug on his belt. “Take off your pants.”

Bellamy catches her impatient hands, undoing it himself as he sits up on his knees, lifting off her and moving aside to give her some space. Clarke makes use of the moment to push her own pants and blue boyshorts down her thighs, kicking them off. 

He crawls back on top of her, brushing her hair away from her shoulder and onto the silk pillow as he pensively stares down at her. And he makes fun of her for always being so serious. “Are you on the tea?”

Clarke hums an affirmative, before nodding, and then just says, “Yes,” because she’ll do or say anything to speed this up already. 

He raises his eyebrows, leaning over her, both of his fists supporting his full weight on either side of her head. Apologetic, he declares, looking just a little bit pained, "I might not last that long."

She presses her lips together to hide a smile, rubbing her hands over his ribs. "It's been a while?"

Bellamy flinches, gritting his teeth together briefly. "Not that much of a while."

Oh. Right. _He_ had a girlfriend. She was pathetically pining for him for over a century.

"It's just—" His tongue darts out to wet his lips, flattening one of his big hands over her abdomen, moving up and down absentmindedly. Bellamy shakes his head just lightly, stuck on the words. “It’s you. I mean, fuck.” His eyes flit down in between them, admiring her body, and if he was anyone else maybe she wouldn’t feel so exposed. It would just be sex. But this, this is the only part of her she hasn’t given him. “Even if you weren’t my best friend — _look at you_.”

Clarke feels her cheeks flush, but somehow manages to keep an even tone as she weaves her fingers into his hair, tugging him closer, until she can look him directly in the eye, “Stop stalling and fuck me already.”

She knows there’s been lots of girls, maybe even guys in his bed, but she believes him, believes in the sincerity and even the awe in his voice. He’s her best friend too. It’s more than sex, more than a temporary lapse in judgement, more than the culmination of a tragic love story spanning ages. It’s a start, a fresh breath. And it feels special. 

One hand rests on her waist while the other takes his impressively sized dick in his hand, already hard, running it up and down her folds a few times, wetting him up with her own slick. Every time it nudges her clit, another jolt of lightning shoots up her spine, the prolonged anticipation winding the coil in her lower belly tighter and tighter.

Clarke wants to remember this moment forever, but it’s hard to focus on anything when he’s teasing her like this. So close. Covering her, overwhelming her. She lets out an almost embarrassing impatient whine, and then he’s pressing against her entrance, parting from her mouth to meet her blue eyes. 

The full intensity of the moment hits her, seeing a reciprocated look of wanting, needing, _yearning_ shimmering back at her in his dark brown eyes, finally allowing themselves to feel the emotions they’d been ignoring, pushing away, hiding for so long. She doesn’t get to linger in it long, because then he’s pushing inside of her, and she’s gasping into his mouth as he reclaims her lips with his. 

Clarke can feel every breath, his chest pressed to hers as he lets her adjust. Not only to his size, but also the countless emotions stirring inside of her. She relishes in the touch of his warm skin, of his lips brushing over hers, parting only briefly to take a breath before returning to the softness. 

Once she feels herself relax enough around him, she can’t wait any longer for him to move. It’s been way too long since she felt this, allowed herself to desire, since she wanted this, felt this _need_ . After years of taking thoughts of him to bed and hoping for one day, it’s built in her bones, historic at this point, her need for him. _Bellamy_. Her partner. Her best friend. Her biggest belief, her only religion.

Her nails bite into his shoulder sharply, her teeth digging into his bottom lip softly to urge him on. She rocks against him, causing her to release a small gasp into his mouth at the delicious friction it creates inside of her, his cock rubbing up against her walls in the worst and simultaneously best way. Bellamy’s hand moves down to the back of her knee, pushing it up towards her chest. The touch of his calloused fingers on her sensitive skin tantalizing. The new angle allows him to drive himself even deeper inside of her, and that sensation in combination with the sweet taste of him in her mouth makes her feel just as desired, as needed, as loved. Safe. 

Bellamy starts moving with purpose at one point, setting a slow torturous rhythm, her breath hitching each time he pulls back and pushes back inside. Their kisses soon become faster, rougher, more desperate, and it’s not too long before Clarke feels too breathless to even properly kiss him back, needy cries spilling from her throat. 

Every time their eyes meet, there’s a matched longing, a deep understanding shared between the two of them. It feels right and wrong at the same time. It’s too good, and it almost surprises her. Somehow, knowing their lives, she always figured maybe this should feel more tragic, sad even. A mourning of all the time they wasted, moments they’ve lost. Instead it’s a celebration, makes her feel warm and stupidly giddy and _hopeful_. Something she hasn’t been in a long time. 

His hand drops from the back of her knee to pinch her pink nipples, squeeze at her breasts until he’s able to draw the little sounds of pleasure from her he obviously was set out on doing. Bellamy’s cock brushes against a sensitive spot just as his hand moves on from her chest to her clit, thumb pressing down hard as white-hot pleasure courses through her veins. 

When she shatters, he’s right behind her, and together they fall. For a moment, it’s just them, like no one else in the world exists. Sharing the same breath, lingering in each other’s warmth. 

Once the sweat on their skin has chilled, he turns his head from beside her, squeezing the fingers of the hand intertwined with his in between their bodies. “How many of your memories does Madi have?”

Clarke shifts to look at him, using her free hand to move her hair away from her still damp neck. “Enough to have opinions about how pathetic I am.”

He looks a bit uncomfortable, shoulders stiff. “All of them, though?”

_Lexa’s,_ he means. 

“No,” she blurts out, squeezing her eyes shut briefly as she wills the mental images of her daughter having to watch any of it on a constant reel whenever she closes her eyes or lowers her guard far, far away. “Thank God.” A silence wraps around them for a moment as she stares at the ceiling and thinks it over, trying to give him a better answer when she simply doesn’t have one. Even though the flame is mostly science, they’re not aware of all the why’s or how’s. “I don’t know how exactly it works, but it’s selective. Most of them are limited to memories that have something to do with being the Commander, or their duties related to it.”

Bellamy presses a kiss against her bare shoulder, and she feels and hears him smile more than she sees it. He sounds smug. “And your creepy dreams about me.”

She shoves him with their intertwined hands, although he barely budges, his waist firm and hard and not even moving an inch. So she lets go of his hand instead, tossing it onto his abdomen to make a point. “They weren’t creepy.”

He tuts, resting his hands behind his head as his gorgeous smile is replaced by one of those arrogant smirks that drives her absolutely fucking insane. “Sex dreams are normal, Clarke. You dreaming about me braiding your hair however—”

“You’ll _never_ get me to admit it,” Clarke counters, deadset, narrowing her eyes at him slightly before sliding her leg between his and resting her cheek on his bicep of the arm that he lowers from the back of his head to fold around her shoulder instead. He’s warm and sticky, but she doesn’t mind. “Braiding actually sounds nice. It’s kind of hot outside.”

“In a minute,” he promises, playing with the ends of her golden hair right by her shoulder. “I like it like this.”

Another comfortable silence wraps around them, and Clarke considers it. Thinking perhaps the anxiety at not having him know how much he actually means to her, will disperse if she shares it with him. “I think — maybe the flame knew I was never doing it alone. Maybe it knew you were my co-leader and that’s why it showed her those memories too. Because—” There’s a quick, sharp inhale before she courageously blurts out, “You’re my other half.”

When her heart stopped beating, he started it back up, and when he lost his mind, she brought it back. The head and the heart. There isn’t one without the other. Different but the same. It’s not so cliché to think that if soulmates existed, he’d be hers. 

Bellamy drops her hair to rub her arm instead, smiling against her mouth as he leans closer and kisses her, chaste. “You’re going to make me cry.”

She hums. “Very likely, yes.”

“You bring it out in me.”

“I can definitely tell.” There’s a teasing lilt to her voice as she continues, “And so can Madi, because in every memory, there you are.”

“I love you,” Bellamy says, simply, like he’s just tired of holding it back, and it should strike her with more surprise, but it doesn’t. She _knows._ She knows how strong it makes her in return, to not only know she has him in her corner no matter what, but to also choose this willingly. To find herself worthy, and deserving. Allowing herself to be happy, to have good things, to be loved despite her intrinsic fear that everything she touches ends up ruined. 

Clarke matches his grin, not caring how stupid she looks. Beyond survival, after the storm has settled, once the waves have calmed and the blood’s been washed away, there’s just this. Peace. “I love you back.”

**Author's Note:**

> im captaindaddykru on some platforms you can figure out which yourself<2


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